


Stages

by Asterrious



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: My secret santa present
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:23:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8975914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asterrious/pseuds/Asterrious
Summary: Roadhog is an explosion. And he loves explosions.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Secret Santa present for the Roadrat present exchange on tumblr. Merry Christmas, RocketMeow!

Roadhog is an explosion. 

It’s not the first comparison that would come to mind when anyone looked at the man- he’s tall and quiet, moves slowly for the most part, doesn’t react much to his environment. But Rat knows better than the rest, how his bodyguard functions. 

If you just think of him in stages, it gets easier to see.

In the morning he’s snoring softly in the dim light, sleeping on his stomach. Arms are curled around one of the pillows in the bed, hugging it close to his cheek, and Jamie thinks the little bit of drool hanging out of the man’s mouth is the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. Rat moves around the room quietly, afraid to make so much as a creak of noise and wake the other. He needs his rest far more than Junkrat. The quiet is starting to get to him but he forces down the unease, the panic. Swallows it whole and lets it rest in his gut, upsetting his stomach and turning his appetite away from the plate of breakfast he was assembling. Gotta do something nice for Roadie. Let him sleep and wake up to a big helping of fruit and juice. The motel had tables of food all set out for the guests to help themselves to, and once he was done boggling at the idea, he’d stuffed his pockets.

But the problem is that now he’s done, with an apple and a biscuit, and some jam and other things that had looked tasty all set out. Junkrat had already scarfed down his own breakfast, almost swallowing the sausages and hash browns whole while he stood at the buffet. No point in carrying too much food back to the room. Looking for something else to do, he casts his gaze around the small space, picking out the unclear shapes of their duffel bags and weapons. His pants are rolled into a ball on top of Roadie’s hook, and with a start he realizes he’d forgotten to put on more than underwear before he went to follow the scent of food. No wonder he’d gotten such stares from the other guests picking at the buffet.

A giggle slips out before he can stop it and Junkrat clamps his hands over his mouth before anymore escape, jerking his head around to look at Roadhog. Luckily the big guy didn’t move at the small noise, eyes still shut, still snoring away. Rat swallows the rest of his laughter down to live in his stomach alongside the unease, and it’s a strange pairing that leaves butterflies in his body and a strange warmth that rushes through his fingers and toes as he looks at Hog. At least, that’s what he thinks is causing it.

In the stages of his partner as a bang, this is the assembly period. Before there’s any hint of gunpowder, before there’s chemicals or wires to be worked on, Junkrat has to gather the materials together. The outer casing to hold everything perfectly, the perfect ratios of powders and liquids to really make it pop, the metal fillings for an extra surprise for anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the blast radius. There’s a special duffel they keep all his supplies in, all tucked together and cozy until Rat has need of them. His hands twitch at the very thought of pawing through that bag and finding something to tinker with. Maybe they could leave a little surprise for whoever has to come and clean the room after they’re gone.

Hog’s ingredients are different than bomb ingredients. There’s his hook and his gun- both of them have a place in each hand and on his belt, everything slotting together nicely. Rat’s learned to associate the jingling of chains with his partner, knowing without even turning his head where the big guy is at any given time, just by the noise the chain links make when he moves. 

The mask is the casing of the bomb. When it’s on, he’s Roadhog and nothing but- he’s a machine to chug along, a watchful eye when Rat needs him, a gleeful participant in the destruction and chaos of the world around them. It rests on the bedside table right now, the eyepieces empty and staring at the ceiling. Hog only recently started taking it off when he slept and Junkrat was infinitely grateful for the extended chance to stare at the big guy’s face, studying the scars and Ta Moko that swirl over his skin. 

Hog wakes up after a while and Jamie is all over him in seconds, pushing the plate of food into his hands, shimmying into his lap while he ate, chattering away to the quiet noises Roadie made while he ate. Slow mornings drive him absolutely insane, but there’s something golden and magical about them, something about knowing they have nowhere to be that makes him feel lighter and brighter.

Once Hoggie assembles himself, they leave the motel without placing a deadly tip in the room. Rat stands up straight in the sidecar and feels the wind whistle through his hair and teeth, mouth cracked wide in a cheek-splitting grin. A bug smacks him straight in the face and he almost loses his balance in shock, drops straight to the sidecar floor in an undignified heap of long limbs and bug guts. He hears his partner laughing at him, a booming, rumbling sound that shakes his bones like the very best bang. He’s not supposed to stand up while they’re driving, but Roadhog trusts Rat enough to keep his balance, not kill himself by hurtling off the bike at 60 miles an hour.

They rob a clothing store that afternoon, just for something to do. Junkrat takes every big sweater he can find in the place, talking about plans for the winter and sewing. Gotta make something big enough for Roadie to wear once it gets cold- it gets cold in the States, right? He doesn’t want his partner to get cold and finding clothes big enough to fit him is a huge pain in the ass. Better to just try and make their own. 

Only, now there’s cops chasing them as they fly down the highway. He couldn’t start sewing just yet. Roadhog yanks him out of the sidecar, plops him down on the seat of the bike in front of him. Sets Junkrat’s hands on the handlebars and clambers into the small attatchement himself, all while the bike’s engine roars and screams. Rat immediately feels the responsibility of the bike, entrusted to him while Hoggie deals with the people following them. He straightens his back and flexes his fingers on the handlebars, maintaining his balance like his partner taught him. Proper bike posture, he said. Made it easier to keep control.

There’s the sound of shattering glass and a sickening scream. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone in a dark uniform go sailing past them and into the pavement, launched off the end of Hog’s hook. There’s the laugh again and this time it’s louder, darker. Roadhog always loves watching people turn into a slick on the road, likes seeing tire tracks through what was once a beating heart and thinking mind. 

“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth,” as he always liked to rumble after a successful heist.

It takes all the willpower Junkrat has to keep his eyes on the road. He wants to turn and plant a kiss on the mask next to him, feel the warm slick of blood that had splattered Hog beneath his lips.

He loves explosions.


End file.
